


a shrike to your thorn

by verivala



Series: Grindeldore one-shots [19]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Canon Compliant, Grindeldore Soulmate Zine, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Poetic, Pretentious, Soul Bond, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-10-11 22:28:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20553701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verivala/pseuds/verivala
Summary: "You melt into each other as you meet. Your skin against his, your tongue in his mouth, your legs intertwined, drawing closer and closer still. Closer, until your mark presses into his, until you are not two but one; one being, one soul, your heartbeat mirroring his. It happens in deserted alleys, in quiet hotel rooms. Every time it happens, you curse yourself, every time it happens, you say it's the last. He smiles and presses his teeth on your shoulder, biting down until he draws blood."Grindeldore Soulmate AU written for Grindeldore Soulmate Zine





	a shrike to your thorn

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to write this fic to have a hazy dream-like quality to it. Apologies if this causes confusion.
> 
> You can find the other contributions at [Grindeldore Soulmate Zine's Tumblr.](https://grindeldoresoulmatezine.tumblr.com/) When all the works have been posted, there will be a master post where you can find them all, and a PDF version of the Zine is also on the works. Highly recommend that you check out the other contributions as well ❤
> 
> My eternal thanks to my best friend who betaed this for me even tho she doesn’t even go here. Love you xoxo
> 
> The title is from a Hozier song because duh

_"Love is born into every human being; it calls back the halves of our original nature together; it tries to make one out of two and heal the wound of human nature." _\- Plato, The Symposium

* * *

** 1.**

Your earliest memory is of your mother. She is threading her fingers through your hair, softly singing a Cherokee lullaby under her breath. Her voice rises and falls in rhythm, her tongue artfully twining around the foreign syllables. _Usdi yona, usdi yona, osta clegy, osta clegy_. It is her mother tongue, her cherished memory of the land she came from. Your tiny fingers tug at her ash-black hair, and she smiles at you, her face gentle and warm as only loving things can be. Your palm lays on the brown Phoenix decorating her tanned neck, your fascinated fingers tracing the lines that disappear beneath her gown.

_What does it mean, _ _Etsi? _

_It means, little bird, that my soul was made for your father, and his soul was made for me. There are many stories of how that came to be, and this is the one your father told me. You see, usdi, once, a long time ago, all humans had four limbs. _ _We were creatures of two heads, four hands and four feet._ _ We were strong and powerful, so powerful in fact that the gods themselves began to fear us. To weaken us, the god_ _s split humans in half, dooming _ _us to forever search for _ _our other halves. But _ _when they saw how desperately we longed to be together again, the god_ _s took pity on us_ _, and to assist humans in th_ _eir search, they marked all halves with a sign that when matched with its partner sang up to the heavens, signifying their _ _perfect match had been found._

_Do I have another half too? _

Your mother slips down the edge of your nightgown and caresses the small black dragon nesting against your collarbone.

_Yes, you do, little bird. And you know what? _

_What? _

A hand comes to lie on your mother's shoulder. Your father places a kiss on your mother's hair and winks at you. You giggle. Your mother smiles, and everything feels warm and happy.

_They will love you forever and ever and ever,_ she whispers and presses a lingering kiss on your skin.

**2.**

You are still young when your father ends up in Azkaban.

One day he is there, lifting your sister on his shoulders, laughing uproariously as she giggles and buries her hands in his hair. The next he is gone in a haze of blood and rage. Your mother cries as he is dragged away by Aurors with impassive faces. Aberforth rages against them. Ariana lies on her bed, her mind somewhere far away. As soon as the Aurors are gone, your mother rushes you to pack your bags. You leave in the middle of the night, you and your brother carrying your bags as your mother holds Ariana’s motionless body close to her breast.

You never return to your first home again.

* * *

Your mother starts to shudder from a cold that is not there. The creeping terror of Azkaban and its guards stains your parents’ bond, reaching through and worming its way under her skin. She wears layers she does not need, and her hands are always cold as death on your skin. You wonder where the justice is in this. Your father committed the crime, but your mother is also paying for it.

Your mother sings no longer.

* * *

You learn to lie on your mother's knee. You learn the shape of falsehoods, the taste of them on your tongue. You learn that a good lie is based on truth and that a good liar never lies more than they have to. You learn the value of silence and assumptions made in them. You learn how to spot a lie on another tongue; the telling movement of their lips, their eyes. You learn to lie on your mother's knee, so you never learn how to tell the truth. You learn to lie on your mother's knee, and she says it's for the Greater Good.

* * *

When your mother dies, it does not come as a surprise. The only surprise is the cause of her death. You would have thought it was her broken heart that would kill her, not your little sister. Not your sweet, strange little sister. Not little Ari. Not the giggling, blonde girl, who stared at you like she knew everything.

The day after her death, your mother is buried on the strange land that she learned to call home, although her heart never left the American continent. You insist on preparing her body yourself, for there are no shamans here to perform the rites for her. You gently wash her body with lavender and wrap her in a clean cotton sheet. You do not cry. For death is not the end. That is what she always taught you. After you lay her in the coffin, you place an eagle feather in her hands.

She looks more at peace than she has in years.

* * *

_(Little bird,_ she whispered, _nothing ever ends.__)_

**3.**

It is a week afterwards that you meet him. You and your siblings have just immersed yourselves in the water of a nearby river seven times to mark the end of your mourning, to clean yourself of your grief. You are shivering in your fresh clothes, holding Ariana's hand in yours as your eyes meet. He is a vision in the setting sun, his hair gleaming like spun gold and his eyes like two sparkling stars, curiously following your trek home. A dragon pin made of jade glints against the black fabric of his shirt. The shiver that runs through you then has nothing to do with the cold. Ariana follows your gaze and squeezes your hand _hard_ as if she were afraid you were going to fly away at any moment.

You turn your gaze away, but you feel like his eyes have burned deep into your soul.

* * *

His Great-Aunt introduces you the next day. His name is Gellert. You taste the name on your mouth, feel the way it forms on your lips. He stares at you. You stare back. 

* * *

His ideas fan the flames within your heart. They have been burning there since your father carried your sister home in his arms, his face red from anger and tears, her gown stained with mud and blood, her eyes empty and unseeing. The flames have been there, quietly burning in the background, in your strained smiles around Muggle neighbours, in the twitch of your hand that is itching to draw your wand when you are walking past their houses on your way home. He whispers words into your ear, and the cinders burst into flames, he whispers words into your ear, and the forest ignites.

Perhaps it should scare you, the speed with which you fall. Perhaps it does. But it's hard to pay attention to anything else once you have been pulled into his orbit. It's hard even to breathe when he looks at you. Your skin feels tight around him like it was bursting at the seams. Your soul sings at every brush of his hand, every graze of his leg against yours, at every gaze trained your way. Your siblings fade into the distance, like single notes fading into the background of a grand symphony. It does not surprise you when he draws up his sleeve and reveals a mark in the form of a Phoenix, gleaming golden light from his pale skin. You bring his wrist to your mouth, kissing the mark, tracing its outlines with your lips, your fingers dipping into the valleys of his skin. His hand finds your shoulder, pressing down hard on the Dragon, pressing down until it leaves a mark, pressing down until he has made you his completely.

You talk of power and the flames fan a bit higher. You talk of masterhood over death, and you feel heady with it. You talk of curses you've always wanted to try but never dared to, and you drag him into a kiss. You talk of violence and your smile freezes. You talk of death and sacrifice and something twinges in your chest. You smooth a hand over his chest like it would smooth over his nature too. You smooth a hand over his chest and close your eyes. You smooth a hand over his mark, and the words don't sound so bad any longer. You smooth a finger over his lips and decide it will all be fine. You drag a pen across paper, and your hand writes words you have never thought before. You drag a pen across paper and talk of necessary force. You drag a pen across paper, and it's all for the Greater Good.

* * *

_Marry me_, he whispers, his mouth pressing against your shoulder blades. _Marry me_, he whispers, his lips dragging across the arch of your cheek. _Marry me_, he whispers, and all you can do is say _yes, yes, yes._

_Marry me, _he says, and you join your blood with his.

* * *

_I had a Vision._

_Of what?_

_Ari- an Obscurial, it will **kill** you. You are going to **die**!_

_It might not happen._

_I won’t **allow** you to come to harm._

_I know._

* * *

You are lying on the ground, him next to you. You are looking at the stars, and he is looking at you. He rises on his elbow, leaning over you, covering your view of the sky. You quirk an eyebrow, and he bends down to kiss you.

_Expecto Patronum_, he whispers against your lips. A silver Dragon bursts out of his wand and flies into the sky. You wave your hand, and a Phoenix rises after it. They chase each other across the horizon, rising higher and higher until you can barely see them. His cheek rests against your chest. You breathe, and his chest moves. You blink, and he closes his eyes. The Dragon and the Phoenix continue to race across the stars.

_We will be glorious_, he says, and you believe him. 

* * *

_Listen to yourself! Wizard supremacy, Hallows? Have you lost your mind?!_

_Aberforth, please!_

_You will **not** take him from me! Crucio!_

* * *

Your sister is buried in the plot next to your mother. Afterwards, you don’t remember much. You feel numb as the procession enters the church. You feel numb as she is lowered into the earth. You feel numb as your brother’s hand breaks your nose. He screams that it’s your fault, and you know it’s the truth. He screams that it’s your fault, and leaves you lying on the dirt. The blood trickles down your chin, forming a stain on the fabric on your shoulder. You look down on it, feeling your mark burn under your shirt, and stifle an urge to scream.

** 4.**

Before his first rally, an envelope bearing the mark of the Hallows arrives at your door.

You wish you could say you burned it.

* * *

He takes the Wizarding World’s political stage by storm. You can almost hear him laughing as he does so. His name carries into your ears in fearful whispers, his smile beaming at you from pictures in newspapers. He gathers followers, charms the Purebloods and the downtrodden alike, amasses a following so quickly the magical authorities have no time to react. The rallies change into riots, the riots into raids.

Wherever he goes, chaos follows. Wherever he goes, blood is spilt.

* * *

You gather your pieces for battle, and you remember how his mouth felt on yours. You gather your pieces for battle, and all you can feel is shame.

**5.**

_You were close as brothers_, he says, and you don't dare to breathe. _You were as close as brothers_, he says, and you almost wish to correct him. _You were as close as brothers_, he says, when in truth, you were closer still.

_We were closer than brothers_, you say, but you cannot say more than that. You were closer than brothers, and your mark feels like a brand on your skin. You were closer than brothers, you were one soul, _one being_, and it will be the doom of you both.

You remember your mother and how she shivered from the cold that was not there. You remember how she stopped singing, how her voice faded, and her smiles became rare, fleeting things. You remember how cold her skin was at the end. You can almost feel the coldness on your own skin, the touch of death on yourself, on your mind, on your mouth as your soul is sucked through your lips. You bring your shoulders together and draw your mask tighter. Your smile feels stretched thin.

It is a rare, fleeting thing.

* * *

_It’s a blood pact, isn’t it? You swore not to fight each other._

You nod, and the vice around your chest eases. He has misunderstood, taken your pact to be the reason you cannot fight him. But the pact is meaningless; it carries no power within it except the one you have given it. It’s a trinket. Just a symbol of your love, of your devotion. The only power it holds is the sentiment you feel towards it. Towards him.

You snatch it into your hand, familiarising yourself with its curves, the weight of it — the two drops of blood swirl, circling each other in an eternal dance. Newt's gaze is heavy on you, disappointment thick in the air. The veil of worship has been drawn from his eyes. You are human now.

_Can you destroy it?_

You smooth down your features and wonder how he would react if you were to tell him the real reason you cannot fight. You wonder how he would react if you were to show him. Your mark _burns, burns, burns_ on your skin.

_Maybe_

**6.**

You melt into each other as you meet. Your skin against his, your tongue in his mouth, your legs intertwined, drawing closer and closer still. Closer, until your mark presses into his, until you are not two but one; one being, one soul, your heartbeat mirroring his. It happens in deserted alleys, in quiet hotel rooms. Every time it happens, you curse yourself, every time it happens, you say it's the last. He smiles and presses his teeth on your shoulder, biting down until he draws blood.

**7.**

No one ever told you that marks did not guarantee happiness.

No one ever needed to.

**8.**

The world is burning around you. A Phoenix made of flames rises and wrestles with a Dragon made of blue fire. They fly through the sky, grappling, tearing each other apart. The crackle of flames sounds strange in your ears. Something smells burnt. You look at him, standing there, his cloak flapping in the wind, the blue and orange flames framing him making him look like something out of myth. You look at him. He looks at you.

The Dragon and the Phoenix continue to race across the stars.

Tearing each other apart.

* * *

You stand over him, his wand in your hand, your chest tight as it always is around him. Your breath comes in painful gasps. A drop of blood makes its way down his cheek and your hand twitches. You want to draw him into you and wipe it away with your hand. You want to draw him into you and forget everything. You want to draw him into you and wipe away the blood like it would wipe away his sins. You want to wipe away the blood like that would make your hands clean. You want to wipe away the blood, and he sees your hand twitching, and he laughs. Your hand withdraws and flaps along your body like a broken thing. He laughs, and it feels like the world is ending. He laughs, and you turn away.

You walk away even as he screams your name. It doesn't sound like your name; it sounds ugly and jagged, a curse instead of benediction. You remember how he used to whisper it against your skin, against your mark (_AlbusAlbusAlbus_) until it didn't sound like a name but a prayer. Until it lost all meaning but love. You walk away even as your mark burns, calling out for its other half. You walk away, and he's still screaming, and you feel like weeping. You walk away until you can hear no longer, your eyes burning, your legs shaking from exhaustion.

* * *

_(**They will love you forever and ever and ever**, she whispered, and placed a lingering kiss on your _ _skin.)_

**9.**

You bury him. Bury him in his own tower, bury him in the grave he dug himself, bury him until you have convinced yourself you cannot remember what his face looked like, what colour his eyes were, how he used to say your name. You bury him like you buried your sister, bury him like you buried your life before him, bury it like all the other lies you have told yourself. But you cannot bury your mark; you cannot erase it from your skin.

It burns still. It's a stain on your skin, stain on your past, proof of your humanity, of your multitude of sins. Sometimes you reach for it and press down hard, as hard as he used to press on it, so hard you can almost imagine it's him.

**10.**

_What do you see in the __Mirror_, the boy asks, and you almost bite your tongue. You look into the Mirror, and he's there as he always is. He's young as the day you met him, and his beauty is blinding even through the Mirror. He cocks his head and smirks, drawing up his sleeve as he displays his mark. He creeps behind you, his hands winding around your waist as he places his head on your shoulder. His chin presses against the mark you know hides beneath the folds of fabric.

You blink, and he disappears.

You drop your gaze on the boy again. Young and as innocent as someone like him can be, young and not yet familiar with the blindness of love and the terrible things it can drive people to do. You smile and lie through your teeth.

The boy is young.

* * *

_Do you have a soulmate,__ Professor__, _the boy asks, his eyes lingering on the black-haired girl twirling in Diggory’s arms. She looks radiant beneath the fairy lights, her hair pulled back, dancing and laughing in her silver robes.

You flick your eyes on the boy’s downturned expression, a confession lingering just for a moment on the edge of your tongue. You swallow it down. There is no need to burden him with your sorrows.

_No, I'm afraid that is a privilege that was never granted to me_.

_I’m sorry._

You smile_._ Such a sweet boy. Such a wretched destiny.

_There is no need to be, my dear boy. I am quite content as I am._

The boy is young, and you wish that he could always stay that way. You wish that he never has to find out the pain that love can bring. You wish that he will survive this and grow older than you will ever be.

You place a hand on your shoulder.

You wish for a lot of things.

**11.**

You reach for the Ring holding the Stone of Resurrection, and you know it's foolish. You reach for the Ring so you can see your sister and be forgiven. You reach for the Ring and put it on, and it feels like you are on fire. Gasping, you throw it away from you, but the damage is done. The curse spreads through your veins, and you know that you will die. The curse spreads through your veins, and you know that time is running out. You chuckle, the bitterness of it souring your lungs.

He was right, after all. Right as he always was. With his Visions and his Predictions. You remember how he shook back then, how he clasped your face between his hands and dug his fingers into your cheeks. _You are going to die_, he said. _An obscurial will kill you_, he said. _Ariana will kill you_, is what he meant.

You clasp your hand and smile bitterly. You clasp your hand, black and dead where his mark was. You clasp your hand, and a tear tracks its way down your cheek.

He was right.

Ariana did kill you after all.

* * *

_After all this time__, _you ask him, and he shoves up his sleeve. There, on the skin of his right arm, another mark lies on the same place where the Dark Mark rests on his left.

It is a doe made of silver lilies.

_Always_, he spits out, and you weep.

* * *

_Severus, please._

Green.

_Gel-_

* * *

(**_Little bird_**_, she whispered, **nothing ever ends**_.)

**12.**

_When you told me you didn't have a soulmate, that was a lie, wasn't it?_

_Yes._

_Was it Grindelwald?_

_Yes._

* * *

_(Can you forgive me?_

_I already have._

_You have always been a fool._

_I know.)_

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. In Deathly Hallows, Harry describes Albus’ mother as looking like the pictures he has seen of Native Americans. Her heritage has never been specified, so I went with the Cherokee tribe because their view of death as transitory instead of an ending reminded me of Dumbledore. I did research to be as accurate as possible, but there might be mistakes since I am not Cherokee myself. No offence is intended.
> 
> 2\. The song Kendra sings is called Usdi Yona (little bear). It’s a traditional Cherokee lullaby. Apparently, men used to sign them instead of women, but since Kendra is the only one in the family who is Cherokee, I thought it more fitting that she sings it to Albus.
> 
> 3\. Etsi is the Cherokee word for your mother when you are the one addressing her. Usdi can mean both little or baby
> 
> 4\. The story Kendra tells Albus is a modified version of the one Aristophanes recounts in Plato’s Symposium
> 
> 5\. When I started writing this fic, I started wondering how Dementors would affect people with soul bonds since they can literally suck out your soul. I didn’t explore it in detail here, but I suspect it would have some side effects on the partner at the other end of the bond. Hence Kendra's reaction to Percival going to Azkaban.
> 
> 6\. Cherokee burial traditions involve washing the body with lavender, wrapping it in a white cotton sheet and placing an eagle feather on the body. Lavender is believed to have strong spiritual properties, like cleaning impurities. Eagles are sacred birds to Cherokees. Cherokee tradition also holds that the body should be buried as soon as possible. Preferably on the day or the day after the death.
> 
> 7\. Cherokees have a seven-day mourning period that consists of fasting and a shaman cleansing the house with tea and removing unclean items from home. The mourners also refrain from being angry or jovial at this time. At the end of the mourning period, the surviving family members are immersed in a river seven times, alternating direction of facing east and west. Then they dress in fresh clothes and are offered tobacco and sanctified beads.
> 
> 8\. In this story, the blood pact is just a symbol of their marriage. The reason they can’t fight is that it can feel excruciating for soulmates to harm each other.
> 
> 9\. Just thought that I would mention it, in case of confusion. Cho is not actually Harry’s soulmate, but - at the moment - he thinks she is. As for Snape, he is one of those unfortunate people whose soulmates have a different soulmate from them.
> 
> Thank you for reading and please check out the other contributions as well!


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